


Reaching for the Moon

by AModernMarvel (bluminic)



Series: Reaching for the Moon [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Jarvis, Canon Temporary Character Death, Jarvis knows everything, M/M, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Past Steve Rogers/Howard Stark - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Sad Tony, Slash, Steve's an Artist, Sweet Steve Rogers, Tony Feels, Tony Stark-centric, Tony's an alcoholic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:01:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluminic/pseuds/AModernMarvel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after Steve is assassinated, Tony grudgingly undertakes the task of packing up Steve’s room at Avengers Tower. When Tony uncovers some unexpected items and some unexpected feelings, he makes a resolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaching for the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever Stony fic! 
> 
> First chapter can be read as standalone, but now Part 1 of a multi-part series.
> 
> Inspired by (but not entirely canonical with) the events of the Civil War in Marvel 616 (comics); vague enough that it could also be placed at any post-Avengers point in Marvel Cinematic Universe. Includes references to events canonical in both movie and comic universes--and artistic deviations from both.
> 
> Caution: Unbeta'd, any mistakes are my own.
> 
> NB: Edited and new tags added on 7/18/14.
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“All right, I’m here,” Tony snapped, striding in to Pepper’s office. “What do you want?”

Pepper, seated behind her desk, looked pointedly at the decorative clock hanging on the wall. _It’s 6:40 pm—he’s only ten minutes late_ , she thought. _That’s almost a record, and he sounds angrier than usual. I wonder if he knows._ She glanced back to Tony, who was muttering a half-hearted apology. She took a deep breath in and another one out before speaking.

“If you remember correctly, I gave up on trying to enforce your punctuality long before I stopped being your assistant.”

Tony huffed. “And still you’re calling me in here. Couldn't you have called my current assistant, whatever this is about?”

“She says that you haven’t been speaking to her. Not since…” She stopped. Tony had stopped too; he was now staring blankly out the window behind her, and she thought she saw a lump rise in his throat. Standing, she walked over to stand beside him, her stilettos clicking against the hard floor. He continued to look straight ahead, even when she raised her hand and began to rub gentle circles on his back.

“I know it’s hard. We all miss Steve. It was terribly unfair”—at this Tony snorted—“terribly unfair,” she continued, “how he…how he died.”

“Was murdered,” Tony corrected. “Yeah…well.” _Tony really must be distraught_ , Pepper thought, _if he wasn't going to let even a little gallows humor shine through._

“Anyway,” she continued, “It’s been a few months now, and I have been forwarded several requests for some of Steve’s belongings to be displayed at the opening of the new Captain America memorial site—and maybe have some of them be auctioned off for charity. The remainder would be placed in the Avengers Archive with all of the other non-restricted Avengers items.”

“And what does this have to do with me?” Tony paced away slowly, then turned to face her, one eyebrow lifted.

“His room in the tower,” Pepper continued. “No one has gone through his old room, have they? And it seems like…I think you should be the one to do it.”

Tony sighed. He had been avoiding that room. Not that he went to his teammates’ quarters often, but he had been specifically avoiding Steve’s room, especially now. _Should be me, though_ , _if anyone needs to do it_ he thought. _After all, I own the damn tower, and Steve was…a friend._

Pepper was looking at him oddly, head cocked to the right. “Yes, all right, you’re right,” Tony conceded. “I’ll do it.”

“I can help you, if you want,” Pepper said briskly. Tony shook his head; he knew that this was his task alone. “I’ll start tonight,” he said.

*****

A few hours later, Tony was sitting at his desk in the lab, two open bottles in front of him. One was gin. One was tonic. Both bottles had been full earlier in the evening, but now were almost half empty. That was a better status than that of Tony’s glass; it was currently completely empty. This would never do.

He reached for the gin again and sighed. _One of the biggest problems of being Tony Stark_ , he mused, _s that my memory was too good_. It was the main reason he drank; alcohol helped him keep his precise and critical and lightning-fast mind from ricocheting about between thoughts, always coming to rest in self-doubt and recrimination. He had been trying to quit drinking—or at least slow down—for years, but neither Pepper’s disapproving looks and nor Steve’s gentle encouragement had managed to sink in entirely.

 _Besides_ , Tony thought, _if there’s any night I deserve a drink, it’s tonight_.

Even so, tonight, he could still remember everything all too well. He remembered his father telling stories to Tony about the famous Captain America—the only bedtime stories he ever heard. Howard had evidently revered the young soldier; he spent more time searching for the Captain’s body, perhaps, than he had spent even bonding with his own son. Correspondingly, Tony remembered his own anger when Captain America had been found alive and placed in charge of the Avengers. Not because Tony didn't like Steve Rogers or find Captain America to be a splendid ally—but because he _did._

He remembered as that friendship had blossomed, first between Iron Man and Captain America— _because, well, if you’re saving each other’s lives every other day_ —and then between Tony and Steve. It was difficult at first; they had been almost complete opposites. Steve was as punctual as Tony was late, as straight-laced as Tony was wild. Tony cared mostly for science; Steve, the arts. Tony would gladly eat anything put before him while Steve still favored all-American meals, complete with apple pie. _What had made it work_ , Tony reflected, _was that we encouraged each other to think and do new things_. For his entire life, Tony had craved the company of someone who would challenge him; oddly, the only person who had ever done that was the blond super soldier.

He remembered Steve’s body when the man was at his peak; tall, strong, flexible, muscles rippling within the tight leather Captain America suits and under plain white t-shirts. His warm, caring eyes; his perfect white smile. And then he remembered Steve’s body after the soldier had been killed, curiously shrunk back to what must have been its pre-serum state. Small and thin, his features were innocent and childlike, eyes closed as if to block out the horror and evil of the country that had cared so little for the man who had been its champion. _And it was all my fault_ , Tony thought. _I didn't shoot the bullet, but I might as well have_. And he remembered standing in the bitter cold on that ship, returning Steve’s body to the ice from which it had come.

He remembered too much.

*****

Tony knew he shouldn't drink in Steve’s room. It was disrespectful. So he made sure to finish the other half of the bottle of gin _before_ he entered the Captain’s quarters, leaving it just outside the door. Just in case. He couldn't risk sobering up in the middle of this particular task.

And what a task it was, at least emotionally. After finally becoming best friends, Tony and Steve had not been on the best of terms for months now, and Steve had stopped frequenting the Avengers Tower shortly thereafter. Fortunately, Tony thought as he entered the room and the lights flared on, there wouldn't be that much to pack away. Steve had kept his space just as spare and Spartan as one might expect from a boy who grew up poor during the Depression. There was a bed, a night stand, a dresser, a desk, a chair. Helpfully, someone— _probably Pepper, it was her type of gesture_ —had placed several large, labeled plastic tubs and their lids by the desk, into which Tony could sort Steve’s possessions. The white plastic one was labeled _Auction_. The blue plastic one was labeled _Avengers Archive_. The red plastic one was labeled _Tony Keep_. The trash can had also been scooted up beside the bins, but Tony doubted there was much in here that would need to be thrown completely away.

He started with the desk, swaying just a bit as he walked over, and flopped into the hard wooden chair. There was almost nothing in its drawers except copies of Captain America’s official records and some letters and drawings from the Captain’s young fans. All of the old letters from Peggy, from Bucky, _from my father,_ Tony thought grimly, had been lost long ago.  He was able deposit most of the present papers safely in the tub for the archive, placing only the duplicates in the trash bin to be shredded and recycled later.

He moved next to the dresser drawers. Other than one backup Captain America uniform, it held only casual clothes—pants, socks, undershirts, collared shirts, all neatly folded. Even the drawer full of boxer briefs was organized, each pair rolled in on itself and then piled according to color. On top of the dresser sat two framed photographs. One depicted Steve with all of his 21st century friends at his twenty-fifth (or ninetieth) birthday party. Tony squinted; there he was standing to the far left, looking not quite three sheets to the wind. _Do I always look like that?_ He wondered.

The other photograph was much older. Tony lifted the picture frame gently as if the photo might crumble even through the glass. Two figures stood in front of a 1942 Pontiac Streamliner, rendered here in a hundred shades of brown. On the right, Steve, the taller of the two, looked the same as ever despite the archaic design of his original Captain America suit. Well, except that Tony couldn't remember the last time he had seen the super soldier smile like _that_. Tony recognized the man on the left just as quickly. He was shorter, with dark hair and a dab of a mustache, dressed in what must have been a very expensive suit for the era. It was Howard Stark. He, too, was grinning—and that was new; Tony could not remember ever having seen his father smile, except for interviews with the press.

Tony suddenly felt weak. _Two generations of Stark men had set Captain America on the course towards death._ Although he knew that it had been Erskine who had made the super soldier serum, there wasn't a single part of American military operations that hadn't had Stark Industries all over it. And now it was Tony’s stubbornness that had made him fail his best friend.

A small crash made him realize that the framed photo had slipped through his fingers and to the floor. He picked up the picture which was now lying in a pile of dozens of glass shards and was about to toss it into the box when he noticed that there was something written on the back. Howard’s hand. It read:

_June 3 1944_

_My darling—may we smile like this, together, always._

_HS           XXXXXX_

Tony sagged backwards onto the bed. He knew there had been a reason that Steve always looked so…off…on the rare occasions that Tony talked about his father. _Or rather, ranted about his father’s poor parenting skills._ He had thought that it had just been nostalgia for that time period, perhaps mixed with Steve’s old-fashioned discomfort at seeing a teammate speak ill of anyone. But now it suddenly made sense. That alarmed look that Steve wore the first time they met, that initial tension that took nearly a year to dissolve. That slow-burning friendship that occasionally flared into argument before quickly subsiding once again into a warm glow. It was the echo of Howard that Steve had seen in Tony, the echo that that had made Captain America eventually jump so quickly to the rescue of Iron Man. _The echo of his long-dead lover_.

 _Living in the shadows of my father, again_. But no—Tony was not even so far in his cups to believe that he only had meaning to Steve as a shadow of his father. Maybe at first, but not now. He and Steve had shared too much. _They had shared a life. Shared everything except a bed_ , that final step of intimacy that Tony had craved for so long and had never dared to seek, or even admit to himself that he wanted.

_I love Steve Rogers. Am in love with Steve Rogers. How did I never notice before?_

He shook himself. _Actually_ , he realized, _I suppose I’m in Steve’s bed now_. It was small—only a double bed, which Tony supposed was a common size seventy years ago—and no one had bothered to remove the blue cotton jersey sheets. Tony flipped over with a great drunken flailing of limbs and buried his face into the pillows. It all still faintly smelled of Steve, aftershave and Old Spice and a slight lingering smell of sweat and musk. He breathed deeply and slowly, his mind’s eye reconstructing Steve as he liked to see him best— _barefoot, dark slacks, belt, white undershirt, biceps…_

*****

Tony must have fallen asleep; only that would explain why he felt goopy-eyed and hung over, and why the light was off. “JARVIS?” he asked.

“Yes, sir?”

“What time is it, JARVIS?”

“It is 3:27 in the morning, sir. I lowered the lights for your comfort, sir.”

Tony smiled weakly. He had slept for six hours—more in a row than he had since the Cap had been killed. “Thank you, JARVIS; can you turn them back on?”

“Of course, sir.”

Tony pulled himself slowly to his feet. He picked up the photograph of Steve and Howard, but instead of putting it in the box, he placed it with Avengers team photo on top of the dresser. _Mine to keep, even if they are both gone_. He found a broom and swept up the glass and the frame. He opened all the drawers one more time; they were empty. Everything was packed away except the bedding, but the staff could take care of that.

“JARVIS?” Tony asked.

“Yes sir?”

“Did I miss anything, JARVIS?”

JARVIS was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I suggest you look under the bed, sir.”

“I already did that, JARVIS” Tony tried to scoff but his head hurt too much.

“I suggest looking again, sir.”

Head aching and almost dizzy, Tony knelt down and plunged his head under the bed. JARVIS was right ( _was always right_ ); there, under the middle, near the headboard, were two large books. No, not books; large, hardbound sketchbooks, one slightly smaller than the other.

Tony pulled himself back up onto the bed and opened the larger one. A name plate on the inside corner read “From the Library of Steve Rogers” in a fancy script. _Old-fashioned to the last_ , Tony mused, and turned his attention to the first page. It was a sketch of the New York skyline out of Steve’s window in the Avengers Tower—but it wasn't the view he would see now; it was of 1940s New York. _What a memory_ , Tony mused. Although the good Captain was still a novice when it came to technology, Tony had to admit that Steve might actually be smarter than him; the soldier’s visual memory was certainly better. He flipped through the next few pages—New York, past and present—followed by a series of truly terrifying landscapes that Tony supposed must be from the war. And then there were portraits; Howard, Bucky, Peggy; Clint and Natasha; Thor; Sharon; Fury, living up to his name…but none of Tony.

He began to flip faster, past pictures of children dressed up as Captain America, past vistas that the Cap must have seen on vacation (Steve took more time off than most of them, as part of his cultural re-education). Tony was two-thirds of the way though the sketchbook and his heart kept sinking. _None of me or Iron Man?_ He knew that Steve only drew subjects about which he was passionate; had he never cared enough to sketch Tony?

Exasperated, head pounding more by the second, Tony slammed the sketchbook onto the mattress.

“Try the other one,” JARVIS said calmly. Tony obediently picked up smaller book. There, in full color—the only sketch he had seen so far in color—there he was. Well, Iron Man; a full-color, red and gold Iron Man saving the day. Intrigued, he flipped back one more page, and then another, then another.

 _They are all of me_.

There were sketches of him in the lab, grease-stained biceps bulging from beneath tight old concert t-shirts. There he was in a tux, making a speech at a charity function. And in his mansion, testing his latest new Iron Man suit. And crashing it.

Then there were pages and pages of unfinished close-ups of parts of the male body—Tony’s body. There were his hands—scarred, busy. His mouth—pursed, smiling, laughing. His eyes—angry, thoughtful, excited. Steve had repeated each subject over and over again, as if he could have spent a lifetime trying to capture the essence of Anthony Edward Stark, never quite satisfied.

A second full-color drawing appeared. This time it was Iron Man, flying up through the night sky, right hand extended towards an impossibly large golden moon. This was the first with a caption—“Reaching for the Moon.” And then—Tony gasped as he flipped to the next page, the centerfold of the sketchbook—and there he and Steve were together. Steve was on the right, Tony on the left, both dressed in fine suits and standing hand in hand in front of Tony’s Audi. And the smile Steve had drawn on himself—well, it was brighter than all the lights of New York City. The caption merely read “And you.”

It was a beautiful drawing. Tony would have thought so had he ever seen it on its own. But taken in juxtaposition with the old photograph…Tony didn't know quite what to think. Doubts began to creep into his mind again. _Am I only a modern day stand-in for my father?_

He looked up, staring across the room at nothing in particular. “JARVIS…” he started to ask.

JARVIS didn't even wait for Tony to finish the question. “Which time do you want to see, sir? I have 196 distinct video clips of Captain Rogers open to this page over the last year, spanning a sum of almost 15 hours of footage. Some of these clips I can confidently say that he would not want me to show you.”

Tony cocked his head. “Meaning?”

“Well, sir…in some of them, he is rather emotional. And in others, rather…indiscreet.”

Tony snorted. _God, I would have loved to see that._ But then he sighed and rubbed his eyes, dropping his right hand to trace his fingers gently over the drawing. _Steve had my father a long time ago, and some of that fondness—that nostalgia—had inescapably carried over into the present. But it is another Stark that he clearly loves now_.

Tony hopped off the bed and picked up the old sepia-toned photo, tucking it neatly into the smaller sketchbook. On the rare occasions that his father had told stories about the war, nearly all of them had been about Captain America or Steve Rogers. Howard had not stopped looking for Steve, not for nearly fifty years after the super soldier had been declared dead. He had never believed that the man was truly gone. Tony knew that the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree where he and his father were concerned—and, he reluctantly would admit, that was almost always a very good thing.

 _Is there a way to bring Steve back?_ Tony thought. _My father had never stopped trying. Neither will I._


	2. Looking for the Tune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: A few weeks after Steve is assassinated, Tony grudgingly undertakes the task of packing up Steve’s room at Avengers Tower. When Tony uncovers some unexpected items and some unexpected feelings, he makes a resolution.
> 
> Now: Tony has been working night and day to bring Steve back. Will he be defeated by the protectiveness of JARVIS and Pepper, a need for sleep, and his own melancholy? Or will his memories propel the genius to defeat Death itself in the name of love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally added a sequel chapter! It's a little shorter than the last; I decided to break it into two parts to leave a little suspense (and give more "screen time" to JARVIS, Pepper, and Tony's memories). Don't worry, our heroes won't be in a lurch forever--I hope you enjoy!  
> _________________________

JARVIS—like his namesake, the original Stark household butler—was very patient, at least insofar as much as an artificially intelligent being could possess such capacities. Tony had not specifically programmed in that trait. Instead, it was something that JARVIS had to develop on his own, quickly, in self-defense against a boss whose hobbies largely ended in costly destruction. It was only when JARVIS suspected that Mr. Stark’s mental, physical, or emotional health might be at risk that he interfered. This was clearly such a time.

“Sir,” JARVIS said, “Have you considered working _without_ the music?”

Tony frowned slightly, the movement highlighting the fine lines and dark circles that had become increasingly visible around his eyes in the past few days. He did not look up from the desk in his lab, which was displaying the results of four algorithms that he was running as well as three open articles that he was reading, seemingly all at once. “JARVIS, you know that listening to music helps me work.”

“Yes, sir, but listening to the same song six hundred and nineteen times in a row deviates substantially from your standard behavior. You have additionally not slept for the past fifty-three hours, nor eaten in the last twelve.”

At this, Tony stopped, raising his head, his dark brown eyes staring off across the room. For the first time in hours, he truly heard the music playing from the surround-sound speakers. The old recording crackled a bit, occasionally obscuring the voice of the woman singing:

                _I wonder if we’ll ever meet_

_My song of love is incomplete_

_And here am I, on a night in June_

_Reaching for the moon—and you._

The song ended, and then, without hesitation, started again, the haunting sound of an orchestra recorded eighty years previously filtering through the darkened lab as the song started its six hundred twentieth repetition. Tony sighed. JARVIS was right; enough was enough. It appeared that DUM-E had already even turned himself off in protest. “Fine, JARVIS, turn it off.” JARVIS let the recording slowly fade away. The lab was silent for the first time in days.

Tony Stark had never liked silence. Silence reminded him of how alone he was. Before Steve had come to live at the tower, he had always felt alone. Well, no, that wasn’t quite right. He hadn’t felt alone when he had lived with Pepper, but Pepper—Pepper had always just been difficult. Always on to him about something or other.

_Tony, why are your dirty clothes all over the bedroom?_

_Because DUM-E hasn’t picked them up._

_Tony, why haven’t you called Fury back yet?_

_Because he’s an overbearing prick, next question?_

She had always been a friend, yes, but less of a partner, more of a day planner with whom he also had sex. And really, JARVIS already served that function. Well, not the sex. JARVIS didn’t have sex with him—not that Tony hadn’t considered how to realize that possibility on _at least_ three distinct occasions—but that was a small price to pay to be able to leave dirty underwear on the floor in peace.

Steve, on the other hand…with Steve, Tony hadn’t minded the quiet. He didn’t even notice it. When their friendship had been strong, Tony could sit for hours in silence with Steve—the super soldier, sketching; the entrepreneur, inventing—and feel nothing but at peace. And when they went out together, it was like seeing the world through the eyes of a child. Tony had liked New York well enough on his own, but when he was out with Steve, it was as if everything was new, shiny, beautiful, exhilarating.

Tony had been told many times in his life that he “didn’t know how to love.” And maybe he hadn’t, not before. But Steve had loved the world enough for them both. Although he didn’t smile too often— _losing your family, your friends, and everything you know does tend to bring a man down_ —Steve always had a smile for Tony. And a “thank you,” whether Tony had just bought him a soft pretzel or pushed him out of the way of a collapsing skyscraper. If the ever self-deprecating Tony had considered his heart previously to be filled with darkness, it was Steve who had filled it with light.

And now the light was gone, extinguished by the bullet of a one-time friend—brought about (if indirectly) by one Tony Stark. Tony shuddered. _If only I had…if only…even if I had just told him one time that I loved him_ … Images flashed before his eyes and his thoughts raced. _Brilliant smile, graceful hands. Shield, salute. Strong and living; silent, still, dead. Sent off to sea, frozen in the ice from which he came._

Tony blinked his bleary eyes, looking up at the wall where he had projected Steve’s drawing—the one of them, together, smiling _, as we would be now if I hadn’t_...The drawing, like the song its caption had referenced, had kept him going these last few days. But now that his working trance had been broken, it was too much. He banished the image with a wave of his hand and was left staring only at an ice-white wall.

Suddenly, Tony felt dizzy. _It has been too long since I’ve slept_ , he thought. The desk swam before his eyes. He grabbed hold of where he thought it should be—fortunately, he guessed correctly—and braced himself against the hard surface. It was of course at that moment that he heard the door on the far side of the lab open, then the click of stilettos. _Perfect_.

Tony spun around, taking care to keep two points of contact with his desk at all times. “Why hello, Pepper,” he said, “To what do I owe this visit?”

The redhead clicked to a halt not a foot away from him. She was standing so close that Tony was almost sure she was going to kiss him. He half closed his eyes and leaned in out of habit before he realized that, no, she was _inspecting him_. She was taking in his rumpled clothes, his mussed hair, his hollowed eyes. She breathed in and out once deeply, wrinkled her nose, and took another step forward before demanding, “ _Anthony Edward Stark_ , why aren’t you sleeping? You look awful. JARVIS tells me it’s been days. At least you don’t appear to be drinking. Though you still smell, anyway.”

 “Tattletale,” Tony muttered under his breath. Then, more loudly, he added, “Genius billionaire playboy philanthropists don’t _need_ sleep, Pepper.”

 Without hesitation, she pushed him lightly on the shoulder. In exactly the wrong spot. Tony stumbled sideways and slid to the floor, taking half his desk supplies with him.

“Uhuh,” she said, standing over him, arms akimbo. “Well, I think this one does. Can you make it, or should I have Thor come and carry you up to bed?”

Tony groaned, but couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of the blond Asgardian hoisting him over the threshold and into bed like a blushing…no, make that a sulky and exhausted bride. He knew when the fight was lost. “All right, all right, fine, I’m going, _mom_ ,” he said, and started to pull himself to his feet, ignoring the hand that Pepper had helpfully offered him. “Good night, sir,” JARVIS called on the way out, sounding a little too triumphant at seeing his master off to bed. Tony mumbled something impolite in response, and suddenly wished that Steve was there. _Steve was always polite to everyone, but particularly JARVIS—even when JARVIS was being a little too self-satisfied for his own good_.

Pepper insisted on accompanying the tired genius all the way to his bedroom— _as if she thinks I’ll try to give her the slip_ , Tony thought; _as if I’d be even capable right now_. They walked in silence, both lost in their own thoughts, until they reached Tony’s bedroom door.

“So,” Tony said, pausing and turning to face Pepper, “Goodnight kiss?” He tried to smile, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“Hmph,” Pepper snorted. But she, too, smiled. “Finally, there’s my Tony.” She paused. “Three days…have you learned anything yet?”

Tony sagged against the door frame. “Maybe. Between some weird Asgardian legend Thor was telling me and some pretty nifty science I just invented, there _might_ be a way. But first we have to find his body. I never—“

“Shh, shhh,” Pepper cooed, “It’s ok, Tony. You thought…we all thought…well. It is all going to be ok.”

“What do you mean? No, wait.” He cocked his head. _Shit, I need sleep_ , he thought, _I should have realized this already, twenty minutes ago, when Pepper first came down_. He felt a thrill of energy course through him. “Did they—“

“Yes,” Pepper said, “I just heard from Bruce. They’ve found Steve's body.”


	3. Interlude: You Are My Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: A few weeks after Steve is assassinated, Tony grudgingly undertakes the task of packing up Steve’s room at Avengers Tower. When Tony uncovers some unexpected items and some unexpected feelings, he makes a resolution. After working night and day to bring Steve back, Pepper brings some welcome news and forces an unwilling Tony towards bed.
> 
> Now: To sleep, perchance to dream...but can Tony's dreams come true?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we get to have Tony and Steve in the same place--if just for a little while. Yay for handsome men and pancakes!
> 
> _____

_“Good morning, handsome.” The voice whispered deliciously in Tony’s ear. He rolled over in the direction of the voice, snuggling into something very warm, very muscular. Something very much shaped like Captain America._

_“Morning,” Tony replied into Steve’s bare chest, but took no further action towards moving._

_“Are you going to sleep all day?” Steve asked. Tony could feel the taller man shifting position beneath him—_ to get more comfortable _, he thought, until—_

_Tony’s eyes flew open in surprise. He had not expected the soldier’s hand to move_ there. _At least, not yet. “Why, hello, lover,” he murmured. “That’s one good way to get me_ up _. You can do that every morning.”_

_“Only if it doesn’t make us late,” Steve chided. Well, he tried to chide Tony, but the tone of his voice gave him away. That and his eyes—pupils blown wide—and his lips, which had turned an invigorating shade of red. He was clearly as turned on as the man he was pleasuring._

_“Oh, and what time is it that you’re so concerned?”_

_“Seven-thirty,” Steve responded. Tony groaned_. Only Captain America would think that waking up before eight a.m. on the Fourth of July—his own birthday—counted as “late.” _Steve continued, “I already went for a run and read the news. There was this really interesting article on cryogenics—”_

_“Mmm, tell me later?” Tony moaned. “I can only think with one head at a time.”_

_Steve leaned over and gave his lover a quick kiss on the lips. “I know. Actually, I think all of America knows that, based on the tabloids—”_

_“Hey!” Tony protested, “That was years ago.” More quietly, he added, “Ok, only a year ago. But I’ve changed.”_

_Steve smiled down at him. “Yes, yes you have. And I think, for that, I can give you a gift for my birthday.”_

_“Oh?”_

_“Let’s stay in bed until at least nine.”_

_Tony gave no protest to that._

_*****_

_It had taken half a year of being indifferent teammates and two years of being “just friends” before Tony finally had gotten the courage to ask Steve out on a date. (To his credit, Steve had also wanted to ask, but was unsure what the protocol was for a man asking out another man in the twenty-first century. Especially when one had dated said man’s father seventy years before). Four days after Steve’s birthday one year ago had been that first date. Now, Tony could hardly remembered how they had ever lived apart._

_Or perhaps that was just because of how they had begun that day’s celebrations for Steve’s birthday. After staying in bed until a record-breaking nine-twenty a.m., they had showered together, gotten dressed together, and were now standing before the ceiling-high windows in Tony’s living room together, Steve behind Tony, his arms wrapped comfortably around the shorter man’s waist._

_“You know, if_ I _make breakfast instead of you, we run a lower risk of the Tower catching fire,” Steve whispered into his lover’s ear._

_Tony turned slightly in the taller man’s embrace and kissed him once, softly, on the lips. “It’s your birthday,” he said. “I should—” Steve interrupted him with another kiss, longer, deeper. Finally releasing his partner’s lips, Steve asked, “You should what?” He smiled down at Tony. “I should be the one taking care of you today,” Tony replied, gently extracting himself from his lover’s arms._

_“Pancakes?” Steve nodded and Tony padded towards the kitchen. “Come on, DUM-E,” he called, “we’re cooking breakfast today!” The robot toddled over enthusiastically and began mixing the ingredients, heating the pan, and cooking the pancakes while Tony made coffee._

_Only a few minutes later, DUM-E signaled that the pancakes were finished. Tony smiled. Sweet and sexy boyfriend, robots who made pancakes, pancakes…what more could a man want? Half without realizing it, Tony began to hum. And then he burst into song._

_“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” Tony sang, taking the plate of pancakes from the robot with his right hand. “You make me happy when skies are gray.” He grabbed the syrup and orange juice with his left and headed back towards the table._

_“You know that’s a song about betrayal and heartbreak, don’t you?” Steve pretended to pout. But Tony knew that he was secretly pleased; the soldier out of time was always pleased on the rare occasion that he knew more about a cultural reference than his teammates. Especially Tony, whose interest in popular culture was relatively low but whose mind retained almost everything it encountered._

_Tony smiled but continued, “I hope you know dear, how much I love you—” He placed their breakfast carefully on the table and sat down across from Steve, who took the billionaire-turned-cook’s hand in his own. Steve brought their entwined fingers to his lips and kissed Tony on the knuckles. “Believe me, I know. No one’s ever made breakfast for me before. Or sang for me.”_ _Steve had always found his partner’s voice to be sexy, even if his sense of pitch was sometimes distinctly lacking._

_Tony sighed. “My mother used to sing that, a long time ago, on the rare occasions that she seemed happy. And I’ve never been this happy before.” It was surprisingly easy to say—that he was happy. It was most definitely true. “Me neither,” said Steve. They smiled at each other in silence. Then Steve said, “Tony, I love holding hands with you, but our food is getting cold.” Tony laughed; there was that pragmatic Depression-era streak coming out again. Though he was disturbed by the want that it signified in Steve’s past, Tony enjoyed his lover’s unquenchable enthusiasm for large quantities of hot, fresh food. “Bon appetit,” he said, and they both dug in._

_“So,” Tony asked a few minutes later, “I already have your present, but what do you want to do for your birthday? We could go to the park, or get the team together and go play laser tag, or—”_

_“Laser tag?” Steve interrupted. He had been delicately cutting his pancake into eighths, but now he stopped and looked up at Tony. “Tag—the children’s game—with lasers? You’re pulling my leg, Tony. You know it’s not nice to play tricks on a man on his birthday.”_

_“No, it’s real,” Tony insisted, “You get vests, and guns that shoot lasers, and you run around inside a building with black lights, and—” Steve’s eyes were twinkling. He was clearly trying not to laugh._

_“I take it you know what laser tag is, then.” Tony stuffed another piece of pancake in his mouth._

_Steve nodded. “I am catching up. You should know I would know that one, though; they still use it for training at SHIELD.” Tony, who avoided formal training exercises whenever possible, had actually_ not _known that._

_“But laser tag,” Steve continued, “Maybe some other day.”_

_“Yeah, I think the team is busy tonight anyway,” Tony added. “I mean, they are going to come by with some presents in the afternoon.”_ But then leave us alone for the evening, _Tony added mentally. They had wanted to throw a party, but agreed that the festivities would keep when they heard about the birthday present that Tony had bought for Steve. If all went well, there would be even more to celebrate very soon._

_“I think,” Steve said, interrupting the other man’s thoughts, “I think that I would like for us to go to the baseball game. And eat hotdogs, and watch the fireworks.” Tony resisted his natural urge to joke about the “hotdog-eating” and “fireworks” that he hoped would happen between them later. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two tickets. “I think I have that covered,” he said. “Best seats in the house.”_

_Steve beamed at him. “What an amazing present! Thank you.” He leaned over for a thank-you kiss, which turned into several before Tony felt compelled to clarify. “This isn’t your present. Well, I mean, obviously it is a present for you, but it isn’t your main present.”_

_“Oh,” Steve said. “Well.” He smiled. “I look forward to it, then. I love you.”_

_“I love you too.”_

_*****_

_The day flew by quickly and suddenly they were standing outside the ballpark. Hundreds of baseball fans dressed in team colors or in red, white, and blue streamed through the gates. Children were laughing and begging their parents for cotton candy, old friends buying each other overpriced beer, an occasional Iron Man or Captain America fan stopping to ask them for autographs. This was the United States of America on her birthday._

_For the first time in a long time, Tony was truly nervous. The simple gold ring that he had chosen for Steve weighed in his pocket like a piece of lead. He had already vetoed popping the question over the jumbotron—despite their public personae, both he and Steve were rather private people—but that made him no less nervous. While the Cap was pretty good at keeping up with the times socially, Tony knew that Steve_ personally _was still fairly conservative. He would consider a marriage proposal very seriously before agreeing. And Tony—Iron Man—was a dangerous person to love, and one who admittedly didn’t have the best track record with serious commitments. Still, based on the grin that had remained on Steve’s face for the entire day, the inventor thought he just might have a chance._

_But then Tony saw_ him. _Over by the entrance—three-piece suit, slicked back hair. Straight from Steve’s drawings. It was a young Howard Stark._

_“Tony? Tony?” Steve said, stepping in front  of him and obscuring his partner’s line of sight. “Tony, are you okay?” But Tony gently and absentmindedly pushed the blond aside, walking past him. Howard also began to advance on his son. They were distorted mirror images, the elder and the younger; Tony knew that, if they met, one of them would shatter._

_They stopped a foot away from each other, two sets of deep brown eyes boring into each other. “He’s mine, you know,” Howard finally said. “Just like everything else you think you own.”_

_“Steve isn’t some just some Stark Industries experiment,” Tony countered._

_Howard smiled. “Maybe not. But you don’t deserve him. You’ll destroy him. Just like you tore apart everything else_ I _built.”_

_The son shrank away from his father’s anger. “No,” he muttered, “This time it’ll be different.”_

_“What’ll be different?” Steve asked, walking up beside them. “Tony, what’s wrong?”_

_Tony was about to reply when he heard the noise. Three shots, and then blood was seeping through Steve’s shirt, and he was falling forward too fast for Tony to catch him. As he knelt beside his lover, frantically checking for a pulse, Tony heard another noise—his father’s laughter. “You’ll never save him now.”_

*****

Tony Stark jolted himself awake in bed. Shaking. Heart racing. _What a beautiful dream. What a horrible nightmare. This is what I get for falling asleep._


End file.
